Flambé: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy (Flambé Series Book 1)

by Elle Berlin

  Instead of turning fan-girl, which I’m sure he’s used to a stunt like that producing, I do my very best to look unfazed. Especially when Connor lifts an eyebrow, nodding once again to my Dragon Tamer sign and the fact that Simon totally spilled the beans on when that was created.

  “I thought I was clear that your number one goal was to keep from burning the restaurant to ashes?” I sass.

  “Actually, I think rule number one was to be classy,” Connor retorts, without missing a beat. “But if not burning the place down is goal number two, I decline. There’s no way I’d miss watching you rise from the ashes as the mythical beast you are.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “That’s”—I point at his spectacle of flickering glasses— “a fire hazard. I advise you put it out.”

  He smirks cheekily. “Was I mistaken? Isn’t the name of the restaurant Flambé? How is ‘put that out’ even a part of your vocabulary?”

  “Sorry,” I shrug hotly. “I guess my vocabulary isn’t as impressive as yours.”

  He leans forward, making his muscled arms glisten in the light of his fire. “Oh, we’ve established that, all right. But truly, the great Arie Noel can’t be afraid of a little conflagration, can she?” I shake my head at him. “That means fire by the way,” he adds irreverently. “A destructive one.”

  “I gathered as much,” I toss back smugly.

  “Hey, I thought you invented this trick.” He nods to the bar like it should be old hat and suddenly I’m some sort of prude for asking him to put the flames out. Of course, I know he’s egging me on. I’m not stupid. He wants me to stomp over to him—furious and completely riled up, so he can grab me, kiss me, and if my imagination serves—fuck me hard, right there next to those glasses, on the bar of my restaurant.

  He expects me to do that. And to be fair, if he was a quick, never-see-you-again hot fuck charm, I’d be all over it. Except, I’ve walked right into his clutches three times already, and he thinks he knows exactly how to get me going.

  Well, Mr. Sex-on-a-Stick can go and shove it.

  “Save the spectacle for when we open,” I say dryly, trying to downplay his whole charade as lame and boring. “I’d honestly walk right out on you if you had your own key and could lock up after me. But seeing that it’s your first day and you’ve yet to prove yourself trustworthy, put out your little arsonist’s show and get your ass out of my restaurant.”

  He shrugs like he had to try, rolling his shoulders back as he pushes off the bar. He makes a show of putting out each one of the glasses with the mouth of another, covering the flame and snuffing them. Each time he lifts the glass, a billow of grey smoke ribbons through the air, releasing a flourish of silvery curls. Even putting out the fire is spectacular, the bar turning into an elegant veil of slithering mist. A dark, sulfurous scent fills my nostrils as he extinguishes the flames, staring at me the whole time and waiting to see if I’ll give in to him. Slowly, he darkens the room, one glass at a time, and I do my best to look bored and unmoved, until there’s nothing but glowing bottles behind the bar and his face is shrouded in darkness—his impressive body a dark and imposing silhouette in a colorful haze.

  I point to the door, but he isn’t done yet, taking each martini glass and dumping the liquid inside it into the sink.

  “You better not be throwing the good alcohol down that drain,” I say hotly. “If you’re experimenting with the good stuff, well … let’s just say Simon won’t be on your side for as long as you think.”

  In the dark, I can make out his cheeks rising as he smiles. “You can always have a drink, if you like.” He holds up one of the remaining glasses, offering it to me like I’m Gretel from that children’s story, about to accept candy from the wicked witch.

  “I don’t drink on the job,” I say smoothly.

  “No?” Connor takes one of the martinis and downs it completely, draining the glass and making me watch his throat bob as he swallows. “I thought you were off the clock and kicking me out.”

  “I am kicking you out, but I’m never off the clock if I’m standing inside the restaurant.”

  Connor downs a second martini glass of liquid and smirks at me. “So, is not drinking a personal choice or a company policy?”

  “Can you keep your cock in your pants and still drink?” I ask nonchalantly. “If so, drink what you want.”

  “But the second my cock comes out—”

  “Class, remember. Decorum.” I saunter up to the bar and start dumping the rest of the drinks into the sink to help him. “Flambé is about seduction, igniting the imagination, the senses. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t turn it into one of your cheap pornos.”

  “Hmmmm?” Connor says, the smile on his face permanently smirking at me. “I do know what happens to you when my cock comes out. Pornos and begging and all.”

  My stomach flutters and he eyes me. He’s saying all that on purpose—of course—he wants to rile me, but I’m not going to give in. Only, my body didn’t get the memo; my stomach is already liquifying at his cheap, lame, totally-not-worth-my-time words.

  “I’ll say it one more time,” I cough to clear my throat, my voice far too husky for its own good. “The door, or I’m locking you in.”

  He rinses his last glass and puts it on a towel, wiping his hands off on his jeans. “You’re the boss.”

  I point to the door and, miraculously, he actually heads toward it. When we’re out on the terrace, he stands idly by the ledge as I lock up. “You don’t have to wait for me,” I say crisply, “I’m a big girl. I don’t need a chaperone.” But despite my tone, he still waits, watching me quietly. When I turn toward the elevator, he escorts me to the sliding silver doors and I can’t tell if it’s gentlemanly or stalkerish, or if I’m just annoyed that he isn’t allowing me to be more than three feet away from him. “Seriously, Connor, we’re on the top of a building,” I say hotly, trying to point out how ridiculous he’s acting. “It’s not like someone’s going to mug me.”

  He hits the elevator button and stays silent like he didn’t hear me; I stare at the illuminated blue light, pretending I don’t care either. The button glows in the shadows with the two of us all alone at the top of the resort with nothing but silence and hot, balmy Hawaiian air between us. I can’t avoid thinking about how the heat and temperature of this night feels exactly the same as when we left The Orchid a week ago, hot with anticipation and salty need. A thick breeze drags the flavor of the ocean across my skin, and I do my best not to eye his muscled arms in that tight t-shirt and those perfect jeans, those damn colloquial and completely primitive clothes that—weirdly—make the pulse between my legs throb at a speed that’s altogether alarming.

  The bell dings and before I have a chance to breathe, Connor is pushing me into the elevator. He swoops me forward, turning me to face him, and I hit the back wall at the far side of the elevator. Connor is on top of me—predatorial and sexy—caging me in with both of his arms at my sides, his palms flat against the metal of the elevator behind me.

  My mouth drops open, the whole move incredibly sexy and surprising, but he doesn’t touch me. God, he could—his mouth is only inches from mine, his hot breath rolling down my chin and over my breasts. But no, despite his dominant pose, he doesn’t touch me. He’s a cage, but not a weight.

  The elevator suddenly moves and we go down.

  That drop in my stomach hitches as my whole body suddenly feels unanchored and light. Connor’s eyes burrow into mine, black with lust and filled with all the promises I know his mouth and body can serve up. God, I want them to serve me, order me, devour me. All I have to do is lean forward and take that hot lower lip of his into my mouth—suck on it softly, nibble and coddle, and remind him I know how to beg. All I have to do is—

  Connor drops his right hand to my thigh, and I gasp at the contact of his hungry fingers on my bare skin. The pulse between us is immediate, my mouth dropping further open as we spark, heat thrumming under my skirt in anticipation.

  His breath wafts ov
er my lips, begging me to kiss him, to push my body into the thick claim of his hand and say, Yes!

  But I resist.

  The rush of the elevator descending—lights and floors and seconds rushing by us as my chest heaves—it makes my head light. My heart hammers as his lips tempt me to give in, to become the needy and eager woman he knows I am.

  I look straight into his eyes and refuse.

  His cheek lifts in amusement, taking my stare as a cue to slip his hand under my skirt. I let him, not moving. Eager to see just how much he thinks he can get away with. His palm moves upward, amassing my hip, and with every inch of me he touches, my pussy aches. I try not to react when his fingers curl around the elastic band at my hip, the red string that secures my thong around my bottom. This isn’t a game I’m going to win. I’m too hot, too excited, too wickedly agitated. Whatever he’s about to do, I want him to do it.

  I take a deep breath, two, but the rush of heat flooding to my core is intense.

  I close my eyes and savor the moment, indulging the delectable way his hand threatens to tear that red string. I want to be surrendering—touch me, kiss me, take me—all of them. I don’t know why I bothered resisting in the restaurant. Everything about Connor turns me into a raging animal in heat and I want him to burn me to ashes in the swelter of his dominance.

  “Tell me,” Connor whispers into my hair, his fingers teasing the elastic band. “Did you wear these just for me?” His thumb swirls over my hip bone, inching lower beneath the seam of my panties toward where I’m hot and eager.

  “Maybe,” I admit, biting my lip and pressing my hips slightly forward. He growls appreciatively at my supplication.

  “Then tomorrow…” his mouth drags against the shell of my ear. “I suggest you don’t bother with the pretense.”

  He grips the band of my thong and yanks, tearing the fabric off harshly! I gasp, and the fabric lashes through my pussy, a kiss of air suddenly slipping over my exposed wetness.

  Ding!

  The elevator comes to a halt and I hear the whoosh of the doors opening.

  Connor steps back, my thong fisted in his hand as he pulls my skirt down so I’m covered in case someone’s entering the lift. Only, no one does, but he still steps back with that sexy smirk on his face, his eyes drinking me in as he inches backwards and out of the elevator.

  “Tomorrow,” he says. “If you want me to fuck you, don’t bother covering up the part of you I like the most.” He nods to the red fabric in his fist, before stuffing it in his pocket like a treasure he’s going to keep.

  “Excuse me?” I hiss out, wickedly turned on.

  Connor’s eyes skim over me again, completely lust-heated and wanting. Only, that glorious smile splits his lips and I almost scream as he winks and turns his back on me, stepping off the lift. Connor has the complete audacity to step out just as the doors close behind him. Yup! That’s right, Connor walks out of the elevator, leaving me all by my myself—wet, turned on, and wearing nothing under my skirt—completely commando.

  I’m going to kill him.

  No, killing him would be too kind. I’m going to make sure there’s nothing left of him. I’m going to turn him to dust and evaporation.

  He will cease to exist—to be anything!

  23

  Connor

  The next morning, I get a text from Arie to meet her on the beach in front of the Atlantis at dawn.

  I can’t say she doesn’t have me curious. I left her in that elevator last night chomping at the bit and—I smile at the memory of those green-eyes blazing when I walked out on her—damn, she was ready. Yes, I poked the dragon last night, or more accurately, I didn’t properly poke her, and now she’s an angry swarm of bees that needs to sting.

  I walk through the empty resort that Flambé sits above and note how the sun hasn’t even breeched the horizon yet. The concierge desk is empty. The bellmen are scarce to be seen. Only one person stands behind the darkly lit front desk. The lounges and ground-level restaurants are all locked behind glass walls with eerily abandoned tables, set and folded with perfect napkin swans, waiting for the morning patronage. It strikes me how middle-of-the-road the Atlantis is. Classy, sure, your normal all-inclusive Hawaiian resort, yet it seems banal and pedestrian compared to the den of sin that Arie’s got hidden on the rooftop. How did she and Simon convince this place to let her open up her restaurant? Were they looking to rebrand?

  Purple shadows hang on the walls as I move through the main lobby and head out past the pool. The cabanas are closed, the lounge chairs and towels are turned down and abandoned. The world isn’t awake yet. Heck, I don’t even know why I’m awake, or why Arie would want to see me at this hour.

  She’s probably pissed about the stunt in that elevator and wants to get even this morning. After all, it only took a measly thirty-two floors for her to shed her resolve and practically beg me to take her where we stood. Hell, it took all of my resolve to tease her and not give in to the fact that when she and I are in the same room, everything turns into a volcano exploding.

  A chill shoots over my back as I move past the pool toward the open beach, where the horizon is shaded indigo. The air feels crisp and sharp, heightening the goosebumps that ripple across my biceps. I’m not sure if it’s the air that’s gotten to me or the fact that it’s morning—real morning. It’s the time of day when one would normally wake up, roll over next to that special someone and remind them that sunrises are best spent with a man rocking between their legs. That’s the real reason I’m antsy. This isn’t an hour I’d normally be around Arie. Ever. She’s the one who walked out the moment she was done with my naked ass. She’s not the kind of woman who’d stay the night in my arms, or let me lay her back on my comforter and wake her in the morning with just how charming my mouth really can be. Hot nights in the shadows, on all fours: that’s what Arie Noel is made for. She isn’t made for mornings. She’s an ember that flames hot and is gone before you can brand her into your skin.

  It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, but on the beach near the shore are two yoga mats. Yoga? Really? After sexy lace dresses and satin panties, the last thing I imagine Arie being into is an early morning yoga routine. And yet, I’d be lying if the hips and ass I see lifted in the air (with her torso bent forward in some don’t-ask-me-the-name position) isn’t an image I’ve already seared into my memory from a few nights ago. It’s absolutely Arie on the beach, at sunrise, doing yoga. It strikes me as contradictory for her to be a late-night restaurant owner and somehow still be a morning person, but some people defy all expectations, something Arie seems to do constantly.

  I saunter up behind her and enjoy the view. When she doesn’t notice me—continuing to hold the same position with her feet on both sides of her mat, torso bent forward, ass high and arms dangling—I shuffle up behind her. It’s hard to be thinking about anything appropriate when you’re behind a woman in this position, but when it’s Arie—hot damn! Yes, I’m the heathen who wants to grab her hips and pull her back against my already hardening cock. What can I say, it’s morning, we’re alone, and the last time she was bent forward like this, she was calling out my name as we both started to come.

  “If you want me to bend you over again, Wisconsin,” I say, clearing my throat and standing directly behind her without touching her, “I’ve got to admit that sunrise yoga isn’t really going to do the trick. Like I said when we first met, I don’t fuck in the sand.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She flips up, startled, the motion of her body smacking into me and making me grab her waist. Damn, she smells good in the morning, like essential oils and lemon sage.

  “An early-morning booty call isn’t normally my cup of—”

  “Get your hands off me!” She spins in my arms, the slash of a silver-grey ponytail flapping against me. I pull back, momentarily caught off guard and take in the image of Arie. It’s barely dawn, but she’s sweat-flushed from yoga and frowning at me under a tussle of light, almost blond, hair. If the hin
t of illumination from the resort serves, I’d actually say it was lavender. Did she dye her hair? Last night? A quick glance down her front has me unsure if this is the Twilight Zone, because her tank-top is distinctly floral and cutesy, maybe even covered in tiny daisies. “What the hell are you doing?” she snaps.

  “Did you dye your hair?” I ask, my hands still on her hips.

  “Did I what?!”

  “The red, it’s—” I point to her ponytail, but Arie glares at me like I grew three heads. “It’s cute and all but—”

  “Red?” she snaps, frowning. “Do you think I’m Arie?”

  “Um,” I shake my head confused. “Who else would you be?”

  A cackle of laughter comes from behind me and I turn to see my mistake. A second Arie walks up barefoot, also in yoga clothes, though the ones she’s wearing are black. The second Arie has red hair, the red I’ve held and tugged in my hands.

  “What is—?” I mumble, doing a double-take to look back at the lavender-haired Arie who’s still trying to extract herself from my grip.

  “Connor, meet my sister,” red-headed Arie says with a smirk on her face, waltzing up to us.

  I yank my hands back and away from the girl I was just harassing. “Oh shit!” I lift my hands like a criminal, suddenly feeling like a douchebag.

  “Connor? Really?” The second Arie’s voice gets high and inquisitive, her gaze skipping over me. “The infamous Connor, I see.”

  I look back and forth between the two of them. “I’m sorry. Did someone say sister?”

  The red-headed Arie wraps her arms around the light-haired one and smiles wickedly. “Remember that whole quip at the Gin n’ Lava about me being the evil twin? That wasn’t hyperbole.”

  “You mean?” I look at the two of them, starting to figure it out. “Right. Good twin and evil twin.” I point at them, respectively. “Does the good twin have a name?” I ask, turning to the daisy-clad doppelgänger.